My phone buzzes against the nightstand. The sudden intrusion slices through my spiraling thoughts like a blade.
I reach for it, grateful for the distraction from the dangerous path my mind keeps wandering down.
I flip my phone over, expecting Carly, checking about tomorrow's schedule, or Maggie, demanding gossip.
Instead, the name flashing on my screen stops my breath in my chest. It's Jerry.
I miss you. I want to see you. Can we talk?
I blink, certain I've misread, but there it is, clear as day. His text is short, simple, devastating in its timing.
The floor tilts under me, pitching me sideways. I shove the phone away fast, like it’s red-hot metal.
You've got to be kidding me.
Almost five years together, and we've tried, but we both know it won't work. We've done the break-up and then get back together dance so many times, most people don't even blink now. But it's been three months now. This time was it. This breakup was supposed to stick.
His timing couldn't be more on the nose. Now, when I'm three states away, sharing a suite with my ex-husband, wrestling with feelings I shouldn't be having.
I stare at the darkened screen, waiting for it to light up again with another message. The universe has a twisted sense of humor. Here I am, desperate for any distraction from thoughts of Woody, and Jerry materializes like some relationship ghost.
My fingers tremble as I stare at the phone, temptedto respond. What would I even say?Sorry, can't talk, too busy fighting attraction to the man who broke my heart seven years ago.
Is this fate? A sign that I should run back to the safety of something familiar? Or just cosmically bad luck?
I can't even tell anymore.
The phone's glow illuminates the ceiling as another text arrives.
I know it's late. I just wanted to hear your voice. I have gifts for you and Sanders. And I really just miss you, Lane. I love you.
A cold ache spreads through me as I try to untangle the mess of my suddenly complicated personal life. One man shadows me from the next room, barefoot and half-naked. Another invades through my phone, his words tugging at a need I don’t dare ignore.
Neither should matter. Both do.
I flip the phone face down on the nightstand. Not to make him wonder, not to play games. Just because I refuse to open that door again.
Jerry was a rebound, a comfort when I didn’t know better. We were never built to last, and I won’t fall back into the habit of answering him just because I want a warm body or a comforting voice.
A siren wails in the street below, the sound rising and fading like my own unrest. The city keeps moving, relentless, while I lie here paralyzed, caught between past and present, unsure which direction is safe to go.
The studio lightsscorch my face. They're hot and merciless. I cross and uncross my ankles,perched on the edge of the Good Morning America couch like I might bolt at any second.
"Stop fidgeting," I whisper to Sanders, when really I'm telling it to myself. I grip my knees through my navy dress.
A makeup artist swoops in, dabbing powder on my cheeks. "Just a touch-up, honey. Those lights are brutal."
The studio buzzes around us. There are producers with headsets barking instructions, camera operators adjusting angles, and assistants rushing back and forth with clipboards and coffee.
Sanders bounces on the couch beside Woody, pointing at everything with unfiltered excitement.
"Mom! Look at all those cameras! Is that Michael Strahan over there? He looks exactly like he does on ESPN, only bigger!"
I nod, unable to form words past the knot in my throat. This is surreal. Yesterday morning, we were in Wilmington, and now we're about to be broadcast to millions of homes across America from a studio in one of the biggest cities in the world.
"You look like you're about to face a firing squad," Woody murmurs, leaning closer. His cologne hits me. It's subtle, woodsy, achingly familiar. The memory of last night flashes through me: dim kitchen light, bare skin, that perfect vee disappearing into the towel.
Heat climbs my neck. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
